


The Valiantgarde Chronicles, Book 1, Chapter 1

by Fyrelass



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Found Family, Gen, High Fantasy, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyrelass/pseuds/Fyrelass
Summary: An odd dream sets Ravara Zaluanes on a path she never expected - that of an adventurer, thrown together with four other odd characters. What at first seems to be a straightforward single mission quickly spirals into a complicated web of mystery and intrigue - and through it all, she struggles to determine who the strange woman she keeps seeing in her dreams is.-------The first chapter to my original story. If you like DnD or Critical Role, you may enjoy this. Feedback and constructive criticism welcome!





	The Valiantgarde Chronicles, Book 1, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note before I begin: This is the first chapter of my own, original novel. All contents herein belong to me. Any similarities to characters or real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional. Please don't steal my characters.
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Ravara closed her eyes to the rough-hewn ceiling overhead, and opened them to blackness.

She blinked, then blinked again. Still darkness. She was standing now, which was also odd; last she’d known, she’d been in bed. When she looked down, she was surprised that she could see herself through the pitch-black around her. She was still in her pajamas, but her feet were in a shallow pool of water. She kicked at it; yep. Definitely water.

“Hello?” she called to the darkness around her. “Where am I?”

A glow to her left caught her attention. She turned to see the source.

Far away glowed a light, soft gold drawing her forwards. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, slowly walking towards it. Her feet made ripples in the water, but otherwise it was perfectly, absolutely silent.

As she got closer, she started to see a shadow, blocking part of the light. It moved, just a little; Ravara paused, uncertain. The figure shifted, and for the first time, a noise she didn’t make filled the air around her.

Music. It was… humming, whatever it was.

Well, she figured that something that liked music couldn’t be too dangerous or terrible. Ravara kept walking.

She was approaching from the thing’s back, and the closer she got, the better she could see. It was a human, judging by the curved ears and pinkish skin. The hair was long, brownish in color, though parts appeared sun-bleached.

Ravara made a wide berth around them, trying to get a better look. From the side, she could tell it was a woman, staring down at the desk she sat in front of. The desk itself was made of wood, and was of absolutely exquisite quality - pine, if she identified it correctly. Ravara felt her eyebrows rise as she admired the carved vines and flowers decorating the side panel.

She took one cautious step closer and craned her head to see what the woman was inspecting so intently. It just looked like a sheet of paper to her, but judging by the way the woman almost scowled down at the page, it held something of vital importance.

The woman tapped a feather pen against the desk, chewing on her lower lip. She sucked in a breath, then bent forwards and wrote something on the paper. Ravara leaned forward to get a better look.

The woman abruptly shuffled the paper in front of her, swapping one paper for another. Ravara took a hasty step back to avoid her notice, but the woman just rested her elbow on the table, her forehead in her hand, and sighed. Then she dragged her hand down her face and played with her pen a moment longer.

There were a long few moments, where neither woman moved. Ravara gathered all her courage as it dragged on, and on, and finally spoke.

“What are you doing?”

Her words reverberated so loudly in the strange space that she physically flinched away from it. Regardless, the woman didn’t even react to her voice.

“A name,” she muttered instead. “She still needs a name.”

“Who needs a name?” Ravara asked, emboldened by the lack of reaction. She took that step forwards again, trying to see what the woman was doing.

This time, the woman snapped her fingers and leaned forwards. “That could work,” she murmured, and picked up the feather again. There was no inkpot, Ravara noted, as the woman put the nib to the page and wrote.

This time, when the woman leaned back and Ravara leaned forward, nothing got in her way. She was able to see the page.

At the top of the page, in slowly-drying black ink and swirling cursive, was written “Ravara”.

~*~*~*~*~

Ravara woke up slowly, sunlight spilling across her face. For a moment, it was easy to just lie there and let the rays warm her cheeks, dappled green by the ivy over her window. In a few minutes, Mother would be calling her name, requiring her assistance with loading the cart for the market. Soon enough she’d have to get up, and dressed, and leave for a couple days.

But for now, she could lie there in bed, snuggled under the woolen blanket, and just breathe.

Of course, that’s precisely the moment her dream returned with all the subtlety of a drunken dwarf leaving a tavern.

She sat up fast, so fast her vision went blurry and odd for a moment. The strange woman at the desk, the paper with her name on it - try as she might, she could only recall how crisp and white the page was and the lack of an inkpot. The woman knew her name, yet she’d never seen her before in her life.

She tried to put her worry aside, but it lingered in her mind as her mother called her downstairs scant minutes later, as she washed her face and ate a quick breakfast. It lingered as she helped load the furniture from her father and the potions and herbs from her mother into the cart, as her father hitched the horses and she and her mother climbed into the back. It lingered, and worry festered, until she finally opened her mouth to answer a question her mother had asked and what came out instead was, “Does our family have… dreams?”

Mother, who had previously been in the process of stripping flower petals into a ceramic pot for dye, paused and looked at her. For a moment, Ravara felt pinned by her keen blue gaze. So often as a girl, she’d wished she’d inherited her mother’s eyes; instead, she’d gotten the green from her father’s hazel. “Prophetic or seeing?” Mother asked finally.

She hesitated. “I’m… not sure.”

Mother scrutinized her for a moment longer, before returning her gaze to the marigolds in her lap. “No, as far as I know. We do not have the magic that sort of dreaming requires - typically, at least. Your father may know otherwise for his side of the family.”

“Oh.” One trail gone cold then. Ravara felt her shoulders slump.

“Out of curiosity,” Mother asked, and she almost cringed. “Why do you ask?”

She meant to keep silent, divert attention if possible. Instead the whole dream came spilling out of her. Halfway through, Mother put the flower down and watched her keenly, solely focused on her face. Ravara finished, half out of breath with the speed of the telling, and looked at her pleadingly.

Mother looked… worried. She frowned, resumed plucking petals from the flower as the cart bounced along. “I don’t know, my mountain laurel. I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” She hesitated, then added, “It could be prophetic, or a seeing dream. It could also be a vision from the gods.”

“The gods?” Ravara did her best not to look too alarmed. “Whyever would they want something with me?”

“Their minds work in ways we cannot fathom,” Mother said gravely. “I would not pretend to understand them any more than I would pretend to know stonecraft, or smithing.”

Ravara looked down at her hands, empty in her lap. “What do I do, then?” she asked.

A gentle hand, calloused and with dirt in the grooves of the fingers, lifted her chin. Ravara looked into her mother’s eyes, now with crinkles at the corners. “You live your life,” she said simply. She tucked some of the wavy brown hair hanging loose around Ravara’s face behind one long, pointed ear lovingly. “They cannot stop you from living each day as you wish. If they decide to step in your path, you will know.”

Ravara couldn’t decide if the final sentence was comforting or threatening. But then Father called over his shoulder, “We’re here!” and Ravara felt the cart jolt to a stop.

~*~*~*~*~

Though Ravara had declared herself an adult barely three moons past, Mother and Father decided they could handle their booths without her assistance for the first time ever. They shooed her away after they finished setting up the adjoining booths - Father’s with his carpentry, and Mother’s with her healing remedies. They were already doing rather brisk business when Ravara drew her wool cloak tighter about her shoulders and vanished into the market.

She wandered for a while, keeping one hand to her coin purse in one skirt pocket. The annual market at Wildefort drew folk from miles in every direction, from the far southern icy mountains and even the wastes beyond, to the northern deserts with their oasis cities and rumored cavernous underground chambers, to the eastern coasts and western forests. All manner of people congregated for the First Harvest Market. Ravara was simply another face in the crowd.

She brushed past humans and half-elves, stepped aside to let a contingent of halflings pass, watched a lone grinning tiefling with a wary eye. She clutched her cloak tighter as she slipped between a few half-orcs talking, murmuring her apologies with barely a voice.

To her surprise, a steel-skinned dragonborn walked her direction, speaking to a human in a priest of Luminara’s garments - light green, fading into a golden orange at the hem as the season had begun to turn. Ravara stepped to one side yet again, bowing a little out of respect for the priest as he passed. He returned the bow; the dragonborn eyed her for a moment. One eye was scratched shut, an old wound, but the sole golden eye she could see seemed to hold a fount of wisdom.

“Good First Harvest to you,” he said, in a pleasant baritone.

“And to you,” Ravara said, who was nothing if not polite.

He passed on without stopping, but as she continued on her own way, she felt vaguely as if his eyes were still upon her.

She kept walking. It was close to midday now, and she stopped by a stall for some cheese, another for a hunk of bread with honey, and the last for some fruits. She ate it all while walking around the craftsmen portion of the market, coincidentally passing by her mother and father again. Both were busy talking to clients, so she didn’t stop to say hello.

She passed glassblowers and jewelers, weavers and tanners, tailors and dressmakers. She lingered a few moments at a shoemaker’s, questioning him about the brown boots he had on display. They were incredible - elegant vines wrapped around the top of the boot, trailing down each side seam. The leather was the softest she’d ever felt. Her own boots were close to wearing out, and an entirely unexpected growthspurt — she’d passed her first century, wasn’t she supposed to stop growing after 75?! — had cramped her toes. Ultimately the beautiful new pair was too expensive — three gold coins — and she settled for him stretching the leather at the toes. Hopefully, she thought, it would give her enough time to save up more for the nice pair.

Ravara moved on, more comfortably now that her shoes weren’t pinching her toes quite so badly. She passed a silversmith’s booth and paused to admire the incredible handiwork. Everything for sale was far too expensive for the few gold and silver she carried in her purse, though, and so she carried on. Past a goldsmith, a bookseller, a fletcher-

Her feet stopped, not entirely of her own accord, in front of the small, low table, tucked in an out-of-the-way corner of the maker’s market. It belonged to a woodcarver, apparently, but the things on display were far beyond the little toys her father had whittled for her as a child. There were certainly children’s playtoys on the table, like a little horse and carriage, and a wooden dog made for teething babies, but her eyes were drawn to the carvings beyond them.

Ravara had seen carvings like them a thousand times - her mother belonged to the Old Faith, and those sigils hung throughout the home. Mother wore one sometimes, whenever she needed to work magic. Some bore flowers, some trees, all familiar to her. The nature elements surrounded the sign of the Old Faith, a lantern with beams shining out of it. It wasn’t Luminara’s sign, as many people thought; the Old Faith was older than the nature goddess, Mother had told her repeatedly as she’d grown up. They paid their respects regularly, but their belief was in the Old Faith.

“See somethin’ you like, girl?”

The old woman shopkeeper was hunched over in her age. She clutched a cane carved to look like a vine. Despite the years she clearly held, her eyes were sharp as she watched Ravara.

“Just curious,” Ravara said. She leaned forwards to see better.

“Druidic focuses,” the woman told her. “I carved ‘em myself. You a druid?”

“No,” Ravara said. “My mother is, though. I was thinking I could give her one as a gift…”

But the woman was shaking her head. “No, girl, you’ve got to choose your own,” she said. “Can’t choose someone else’s magic for them.”

“But I’m not a druid,” Ravara protested.

“Is that so? A shame.” The woman shifted around on her stool, using her stick to poke at the carvings. “Take a look anyhoo. See what you think.”

So Ravara leaned closer, keeping her hands to herself. “You can touch,” the woman said. “Won’t find it just staring.”

She felt a little stupid, but she dragged her fingers over the surface of some of the carvings. Nothing happened, and the longer she stood there the more stupid she felt, but her finger grazed one carving and her entire body froze up.

The woman gave her a knowing smile. “Found somethin’?”

Ravara didn’t respond, only picked up the circular carving and turned it over in her hands. It took her a moment to recognize the carving on the face of the wood, but when she did she could’ve laughed aloud.

Mountain laurel.

“That there’s willow wood,” the old woman said. “Great flexibility, in the thin branches. Some say it can cause seein’ dreams, if you put it under your pillow at night.” If she noticed Ravara’s pause, she didn’t comment on it. “Made for healer’s hands, mostly.”

“Willow bark tea.”

“Precisely so.” The woman held out a hand; Ravara felt uncharacteristically reluctant to hand it over. “Took me just a week to carve that one. It fair begged to be made into something pretty and practical.”

“It really is pretty,” Ravara agreed.

“So you’ll be wanting it, then? I’d charge a gold piece for it ordinarily, but…” The old woman eyed her sharply. “For you, 8 silver.”

“No, no, I couldn’t-”

“It’s chosen you, girl. If it doesn’t go with you now, it’ll find its way back t’you somehow.” The woman passed it back over and held out a hand. Somewhat reluctantly, Ravara dug out 8 silver pieces from her rapidly-emptying coin purse and handed them over.

“Pleasure doing business with you, girl. Come back someday and tell me how that worked for you.” The old woman gave her a cheeky wink and turned back to the main marketplace.

Ravara walked on, turning the carving over in her hands a few times. The wood was smooth under her fingertips. The woman hadn’t finished it with varnish so that the actual wood was exposed to the elements and her hand. The details… each flower had individually carved petals, no easy feat on flowers so tiny. Channels carved into each one signified each individual stamen, leading to the slightly-raised centers. It was an incredible piece of work, and she could certainly see how the woman would charge a gold piece for it on a normal day.

She slipped it into a pocket, but kept one hand on it as she kept walking.

~*~*~*~*~

She was on the far outskirts of the market now, still tracing her fingers over the carving as she observed everything around her. Perhaps her observation wasn’t as good as she thought it was, though. She didn’t hear the crashing noises until the door to the tavern beside her flew open, and someone hurled a figure out into the street.

Ravara very narrowly avoided being hit by the flying figure as it crashed onto the worn cobblestones. “And STAY OUT, you hear?!” the thrower roared. He made to close the door, but a slim figure slipped past him just before he could. The heavy wooden door slammed just behind them.

“Osaze, you can’t just say things like that,” the person said with a weary sigh, walking to the person on the ground at Ravara’s feet. It looked like a woman, a human, while the person on the ground was a half-elf man. Both appeared young to Ravara’s eye. “Sorry,” the woman said as an aside to her.

“What?” the man asked, taking her hand as she hauled him to his feet. He hissed and lifted one foot off the ground, balancing. “It’s the truth!”

“You can’t just go around claiming that,” the woman lectured. “And look at that - now you’re injured.”

“It probably isn’t too bad, just a sprain,” Ravara said before she could think the better of it. Both humans turned to look at her; she felt her cheeks warm up a little. “Oh- sorry.”

“Are you a healer?” the young man asked, dark eyes lighting up with some emotion she wasn’t entirely sure of.

“My mother is,” Ravara said. “She’s taught me some stuff. Here - let’s sit down and I can take a look, if you’d like?”

Those who’d been watching the spectacle had finally continued on with their business by the time Ravara and the woman helped the man hobble over to a bench nearby. Ravara sat beside him and unceremoniously pulled his injured ankle into her lap, ignoring his yelp of surprise. She prodded at it a little. “Just a sprain,” she repeated. “I’ll wrap it up tight and you should be fine.”

“Thanks.” The young man gave her a bright, sunny grin. Ravara ignored him as she dug through her many pockets for her healer’s kit. “I’m Osaze, this is Misvai.”

“Ravara,” she said absently. Wherever had her bandages gone, she’d sworn she’d brought it with her in one pocket or another-

Her fingers grazed the focus in her pocket, and Ravara felt a tug centered in her chest. Warmth gathered in her breastbone; a faint green glow emanated from her other hand, which still rested on Osaze’s ankle. Startled, she stared down at her own hand as if never having seen it before.

“Oh, cool!” Osaze said. “You’re a healer?”

“Not usually like this,” Ravara muttered. The glow faded; she prodded at his ankle again. Sure enough, the sprain had disappeared. “You’re… good to go, I guess.”

“Sweet, thanks.” He stood up and stretched, rotating his ankle experimentally.

Now Ravara could see both of them head-to-toe. Osaze was tall, olive-skinned, with dark curly hair cropped short at the sides and back, left long on top. His ears were a touch pointed, speaking to elven heritage, but weren’t enough so to indicate full elven blood. His eyes were dark brown, bright and curious. He wore plain brown breeches and a simple shirt dyed red. His shoes were surprisingly thin, made of decent-quality leather, but more like dancer’s shoes than the boots Ravara favored.

Misvai was slightly shorter, a little stockier than Osaze. Her own skin was alabaster, her hair dark as night and cropped chin-length. Ravara’s eyes were drawn to the bow slung over her back and the quiver hanging from her belt. Her breeches were dark green, loose and full around her legs, giving the appearance of a skirt until she walked. Her shirt was cream-colored, short sleeves revealing leather armguards. Her shoes were the boots Ravara had expected, scuffed and worn with age.

“Well… it was nice meeting you,” Ravara said, a little awkward. She stood herself and dusted her skirt off. “I suppose I’ll see you around…”

“Are you from the area?” Osaze asked. “Cause, well, we aren’t.”

“Really?” asked Ravara, eying their thin cotton layers suited more to life in fields or deserts and the way Osaze shivered slightly as a light breeze blew past them. “I never would’ve guessed.”

She caught Misvai abruptly chewing on her lower lip, but it appeared to go right over Osaze’s head. “So, could you show us around?”

“There isn’t much to see besides the market,” she said, frowning. “The tournament doesn’t start until later…”

“Oh no, it’s fine! I’m just curious!”

Ravara glanced at Misvai, who was in the process of rolling her eyes. “I guess?” she said finally. “Uh… follow me?”

So she lead them throughout the market, though it was less of her leading them and more of Osaze running around all over the place while Misvai walked with her.

“What brought you here?” Ravara asked finally, when she couldn’t take much more silence.

“Osaze wanted to compete, and wherever he goes, I get dragged along.” Misvai sighed. “He’s… headstrong. And convincing.”

“I can see that,” Ravara said. She glanced at the other young woman. “Where are you from?”

Misvai went very quiet for a couple moments. Ravara started to think she didn’t actually hear the question when she replied, “Far away. Very far away.”

“Oh, really?” Ravara paused at a beekeeper’s stand, exchanged a couple coppers for a small glass jar full of honey. Misvai waited for her, a small gesture of kindness Ravara wasn’t expecting. “Near or far? I’ve barely ever left this town and the forest, I’m sure you have such interesting stories to tell.”

Misvai looked away for a long moment. Ravara got the feeling there was a nerve she’d just danced upon and opened her mouth to apologize when the other said, “Yes.” In a lower voice, she added, “Not all of it pleasant.”

“Oh,” Ravara whispered. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“And I’m sorry Osaze dragged you along too,” Misvai replied. “He likes to pester until he gets his way.”

Ravara laughed.

~*~*~*~*~

The tournament at the heart of the festival drew adventurers from across the land. The gold prize wasn’t too terribly much — only twenty gold or so — but winning practically guaranteed the winner notoriety of some level. Many adventurers used it as a way to gain local acclaim, before going on to do greater and greater deeds as they gathered more fame. She’d never been all that interested in the tournament besides observing from the outskirts. It was a good way to pass the time, some entertainment at the end of a long workday.

“I want to enter the tournament!” Osaze told the clerk seated behind the table. The banner overhead advertised the tournament sign-up. Misvai and Ravara hung back, observing silently.

“Are you competing by yourself, or are you interested in the skirmish?” the woman behind the table asked.

“What’s the skirmish?”

“Two teams of five fight each other, then the winning team fights the champion of the individual tournament.”

Osaze brightened, as unknown to him, Misvai and Ravara exchanged a Look behind his head. Then he deflated somewhat. “There’s only three of us, though…”

Ravara hardly had time to be alarmed at his automatic inclusion of her before the clerk was shuffling parchment on the table. “There’s a list of people who want to participate, but don’t have a group,” she said. “You’d be randomly paired with them at the beginning of the fight.”

“Ok!” Osaze took the feather and hovered over the ink for a moment, before glancing over one shoulder. “You guys don’t mind if I sign us up, do you?”

Misvai shrugged; Ravara opened her mouth to object.

“Great!”

She shut her mouth again. Misvai gave her another apologetic look. She was starting to get the feeling it was a very common occurrence.

So Osaze scribbled down all three of their names, and the young clerk gave them instructions. They had perhaps half an hour before the individual tournament started. Osaze spent much of it chattering on and on, prompting the occasional bemused response from Ravara.

Misvai didn’t say much, spent her time cleaning her bow and checking every arrow in the quiver at her hip. Ravara didn’t see any obvious weapons on Osaze, but perhaps he had some daggers tucked away somewhere.

She herself had her sling wrapped around her waist and a handful of river stones tucked into a pouch at her belt. No real armor to speak of, which was unfortunate, but she could duck and dodge if necessary. She also had the newfound ability to heal, apparently, and the carved sigil in her skirt pocket. She took to running her thumb over it repeatedly as they sat on a bench outside the tournament circle and watched the people go by.

Even though she’d never competed, Ravara always loved to watch the one-on-one tournament. It was a show of skill; many of the competitors were very powerful, and their battles showed it. Those in charge of the tournament were careful to match those close to the same skill level. Smaller fights went first, building up to the winner of the final fight that the winner of the skirmish would face off against. When that time came, Ravara watched closely, determined not to be caught off guard by an unexpected attack.

Their likely opponent was a barbarian, if she guessed right. He held a massive mace as if it weighed nothing. He was also surprisingly fast - not quite as fast as his opponent, but he was patient, and he had at least some intelligence. He tracked his opponent carefully and move to intercept wherever they were going to be, once he appeared to figure out they had trouble stopping.

Soon enough, his opponent fell, and the crowd roared its approval. The barbarian roared back, and Ravara applauded politely. Internally, though, her stomach was churning. They’d have to fight it out with the other team, then against the champion, and he looked very strong. Far stronger than any of the three were. She could only pray the other two parts of their five-man band were more powerful than they were — or that they lost the preceding skirmish.

Then the announcer spoke over the roar of the crowd. “Five-man teams to the prep tent! Five-man teams, you’re on next!”

Ravara smoothed her hands over her skirt once more, slipped one hand into her pocket to touch the sigil. Oddly, just stroking the surface made her feel calmer, less tense. She followed Osaze and Misvai to the prep tent, just beside the fenced-off clearing the fights took place in.

They had to stand aside at the entrance to the tent, waiting for the loser of the last fight to stagger out. He was half-draped over a young woman, who was haranguing him. “-ly irresponsible, you could’ve died, we barely survived the ogres last week-” Ravara winced at the woman’s anger, at the same time that she agreed with the ‘irresponsible’ bit.

“Is it too late to back out now?” she asked Misvai softly. The other woman shrugged. Her longbow was already in her hands; she spun it repeatedly, watching Osaze’s back.

There were three other people in the tent. One, as expected, was the announcer. The second was a pretty young woman seated on a crate, watching them with dark eyes half hidden by long blonde hair. Slim, pale fingers tapped out a pattern on a solid brown woolen skirt - decent quality weave, to Ravara’s eye. Her blouse hung loose from her form, also plain, natural-colored linen. Again - good quality, same as the boots on her feet. Maybe she was a merchant, or a merchant’s daughter. She certainly didn’t look to be a fighter of any type.

The third and final being in the tent was a green tiefling. He wore a chainmail tunic, one hand resting on the hilt of an enormous sword in a sheathe at his hip. Dark, fluffy hair hid the base of his horns, which curved like a ram’s, up and towards the back of his head. When he turned to look at them, Ravara thought she caught a shimmer of gold to his skin, the same color as his eyes. She wasn’t expecting the sudden broad grin that broke across his face.

“Wonderful!” the tiefling explained, in a deep, smooth voice. “You must be the group of three this nice man was just telling us about.”

The ‘nice man’ in question cleared his throat for a moment. “Yes, right, well - Candor, Lyon, these are the other three combatants on your team. Osaze-”

“That’s me!” Osaze beamed at them.

“Misvai,” who raised her hand, “and Ravara.” She dipped a slight curtsy.

“Wonderful,” the young woman echoed, pushing herself to her feet. She moved with grace, maybe like some kind of cat — more a panther than a house-cat. “So. Where’s the other team we’re supposed to face off against?”

“Well, actually,” the announcer said, frowning as he looked down at his parchment. “They just told me they’ve decided not to compete.”

Everyone went quite still for a moment. “Wait,” Osaze said, forehead wrinkling. “But we were supposed to fight them, so what’s going to happen now?”

“Well, you have two options,” the announcer told them. “Either you can bow out of the fight, or you can still compete - you’d just face the champion alone, instead of fighting for that honor.”

“Honor,” Ravara heard Misvai mutter beside her, sounding somewhat derisive. She was inclined to agree. At least before this new development, they’d stood a chance of losing.

She wouldn’t have had to worry about worrying her parents or embarrassing herself in front of everybody. Now, it appeared she had no real choice. To back out now would leave the others high and dry - and while she had no real reason to compete, she didn’t want to force them to back down as well.

“Does anyone want to forfeit?” the announcer asked.

Ravara chewed her lower lip, but didn’t speak. Neither did anyone else. The announcer looked relieved. “All right, wonderful. You’ll be facing off against the champion of the one-against-one fights, Hagathor.”

That… certainly sounded like a hill barbarian’s name. Judging by the looks on other faces, they’d also noticed that. Osaze suddenly didn’t look so keen to fight; perhaps there was more to him than just a happy-go-lucky half-elf after all.

“He’ll be given about fifteen minutes to recuperate and be healed, and then you’ll face off against him.” The announcer looked around. “Any questions?”

Silence. Everyone appeared to be in their own little world.

“Then I’ll leave you to prepare. When you hear your- oh, right. Do you have a team name?”

The young woman — Lyon? — gave him an unamused look. “Two of us have never met the other three,” she pointed out. “No, we do not. Give us ten minutes. We’ll try to come up with something.”

The announcer nodded, apparently accepting the answer with good grace, and left them to it.

The woman turned in her seat to face them, hands folded elegantly on her skirt. “My name is Lyon,” she said. “That’s Candor.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Candor said, beaming at them. Ravara wasn’t sure she’d ever seen such a happy tiefling in her life. “Have you known each other for a long time?”

“No,” Osaze said, at the same time as Ravara said, “Not at all.”

They exchanged looks. “I only ran into them today,” she explained. “And… well, Osaze rather dragged me into this.”

Lyon’s lips twisted with what looked like amusement. “I see.” She glanced at Candor. “We’ve been wandering for a while, together. It’s been an… interesting time.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Misvai asked, leaning against a tent pole. “No offense, but… you don’t look like much of a fighter.”

Lyon’s smile this time was mischievous. “That’s the point,” she said airily. “Don’t worry. You’ll see.”

It didn't miss Ravara's attention that she hadn't answered the original question.

“We need to come up with a name, don’t we?” Candor said, that same cheerful smile on his face. “So exciting!”

Ravara felt her eyebrows rise a little. “It’s just for this fight,” she pointed out. She, personally, had no intentions of continuing with the others after the fight.

“But we should make it something good,” Osaze pointed out. He hopped onto a stack of crates and stayed in a crouch on the top. “Something like… the Super Squad!”

Ravara was frankly surprised she couldn’t hear crickets in the aftermath of his declaration.

“No one else? Just me?” He looked just a little crestfallen.

“Shadows of the Woods?” Misvai suggested.

“It’s interesting, but we’re not in the woods,” Lyon said.

“The Aspiring Warriors!” Candor said, raising his fist in the air.

“Makes us sound like we don’t know what we’re doing.” Lyon tapped her fingers on her skirt some more. “Ravenstand?”

“It would make a good city name,” Ravara said, tilting her head to the side. “But… we’re not a city.”

“Specters of the Righteous,” Candor said. “That sounds good.”

“But we aren’t ghosts,” Osaze said.

Ravara pursed her lips, thinking. Something strong, something powerful. Something to make people take them seriously. To inspire, but not frighten.

“What about…” She hesitated. “The Valiantgarde?”

All other voices fell silent, while they appeared to mull it over. Ravara twisted her skirt in her hands, waiting for the response. They hadn’t dismissed it outright, which she supposed was a good thing.

“I like it,” Lyon said finally.

“It sounds like a strong name,” Candor agreed. “It has my vote.”

“Agreed,” Osaze said, as Misvai nodded. “The Valiantgarde we are!”

**Author's Note:**

> That's only chapter 1 in what I hope to make into an epic series of novels. What originally started as plans for a 4-book series has quickly spiraled, however, so we'll see what happens/where it goes from here. This is also a rough draft that will require quite a bit of further work until it's ready for publication.
> 
> As before, constructive criticism and feedback is welcome. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it! Unfortunately I have no plans to post further chapters at this time, as this is a novel I hope to one day publish. If it ever does get published, I'll make sure to update this informing everyone of where to find it and what it's called.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter.


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